## The Interest Rate and the Interest Rate

We will return to secular stagnation. But we need to clear some ground first. What is an interest rate?

Imagine you are in a position to acquire a claim on a series of payments  in the future. Since an asset is just anything that promises a stream of payments in the future, we will say you are thinking of buying of an asset. What will you look at to make your decision?

First is the size of the payments you will receive, as a fraction of what you pay today. We will call that the yield of the asset, or y. Against that we have to set the risk that the payments may be different from expected or not occur at all; we will call the amount you reduce your expected yield to account for this risk r. If you have to make regular payments beyond the purchase of the asset to receive income from it (perhaps taxes, or the costs of operating the asset if it is a capital good) then we also must subtract these carrying costs c. In addition, the asset may lose value over time, in which case we have to subtract the depreciation rate d. (In the case of an asset that only lasts one period — a loan to be paid back in full the next period, say — d will be equal to one.) On the other hand, owning an asset can have benefits beyond the yield. In particular, an asset can be sold or used as collateral. If this is easy to do, ownership of the asset allows you to make payments now, without having to waiting for its yield in the future. We call the value of the asset for making unexpected payments its liquidity premium, l. The market value of long-lasting assets may also change over time; assuming resale is possible, these market value changes will produce a capital gain g (positive or negative), which must be added to the return. Finally, you may place a lower value on the payments from the asset simply because they take place in the future; this might be because your needs now are more urgent than you expect them to be then, or simply because you prefer income in the present to income in the future. Either way, we have to subtract this pure time-substitution rate i.

So the value of an asset costing one unit (of whatever numeraire) will be 1 + y – r – c – d + l + g – i.

(EDIT: On rereading, this could use some clarification:

Of course all the terms can take on different (expected) values in different time periods, so they are vectors, not scalars. But if we assume they are constant, and that the asset lasts forever (i.e. a perpetuity), then we should write its equilibrium value as: V = Y/i, where Y is the total return in units of the numeraire, i.e. Y = V(y – r – c + l + g) and i is the discount rate. Divide through both sides by V/i and we have i = y – r – c + l + g. We can now proceed as below.)

In equilibrium, you should be just indifferent between purchasing and not purchasing this asset, so we can write:

y – r – c – d + l + g – i = 0, or

(1) y = r + c + d – l – g + i

So far, there is nothing controversial.

In formal economics, from Bohm-Bawerk through Cassel, Fisher and Samuelson to today’s standard models, the practice is to simplify this relationship by assuming that we can safely ignore most of these terms. Risk, carrying costs and depreciation can be netted out of yields, capital gains must be zero on average, and liquidity is assumed not to matter or just ignored. So then we have:

(2) y = i

In these models, it doesn’t matter if we use the term “interest rate” to mean y or to mean i, since they are always the same.

This assumption is appropriate for a world where there is only one kind of asset — a risk-free contract that exchanges one good in the present for 1 + i goods in the future. There’s nothing wrong with exploring what the value of i would be in such a world under various assumptions.

The problem arises when we carry equation (2) over to the real world and apply it to the yield of some particular asset. On the one hand, the yield of every existing asset reflects some or all of the other terms. And on the other hand, every contract that involves payments in more than one period — which is to say, every asset — equally incorporates i. If we are looking for the “interest rate” of economic theory in the economic world we observe around us, we could just as well pick the rent-price ratio for houses, or the profit rate, or the deflation rate, or the ratio of the college wage premium to tuition costs. These are just the yields of a house, of a share of the capital stock, of cash and of a college degree respectively. All of these are a ratio of expected future payments to present cost, and should reflect i to exactly the same extent as the yield of a bond does. Yet in everyday language, it is the yield of the bond that we call “interest”, even though it has no closer connection to the interest rate of theory than any of these other yields do.

This point was first made, as far as I know, by Sraffa in his review of Hayek’s Prices and Production. It was developed by Keynes, and stated clearly in chapters 13 and 17 of the General Theory.

For Keynes, there is an additional problem. The price we observe as an “interest rate” in credit markets is not even the y of the bond, which would be i modified by risk, expected capital gains and liquidity. That is because bonds do not trade against baskets of goods. They trade against money. When we see a bond being sold with a particular yield, we are not observing the exchange rate between a basket of goods equivalent to the bond’s value today and baskets of goods equivalent to its yield in the future. We are observing the exchange rate between the bond today and a quantity of money today. That’s what actually gets exchanged. So in equilibrium the price of the bond is what equates the expected returns on the two assets:

(3) y_B – r_B + l_B + g_B – i = l_M – i

(Neither bonds nor money depreciate or have carrying costs, and money has no risk. If our numeraire is money then money also cannot experience capital gains. If our numeraire was a basket of goods instead, then -g would be expected inflation, which would appear on both sides and cancel out.)

What we see is that i appears on both sides, so it cancels out. The yield of the bond is given by:

(4) y_B  = r_B – g_B + (l_M – l_B)

The yield of the bond — the thing that in conventional usage we call the “interest rate” — depends on the risk of the bond, the expected price change of the bond, and the liquidity premium of money compared with the bond. Holding money today, and holding a bond today, are both means to enable you to make purchases in the future. So the intertemporal substitution rate i does not affect the bond yield.

(We might ask whether the arbitrage exists that would allow us to speak of a general rate of time-substitution i in real economies at all. But for present purposes we can ignore that question and focus on the fact that even if there is such a rate, it does not show up in the yields we normally call “interest rates”.)

This is the argument as Keynes makes it. It might seem decisive. But monetarists would reject it on the grounds that nobody in fact holds money as a store of value, so equation (3) does not apply. The bond-money market is not in equilibrium, because there is zero demand for money beyond that needed for current transactions at any price. (The corollary of this is the familiar monetarist claim that any change in the stock of  money must result in a proportionate change in the value of transactions, which at full employment means a proportionate rise in the price level.) From the other side, endogenous money theorists might assert that the money supply is infinitely elastic for any credit-market interest rate, so l_M is endogenous and equation (4) is underdetermined.

As criticisms of the specific form of Keynes’ argument, these are valid objections. But if we take a more realistic view of credit markets, we come to the same conclusion: the yield on a credit instrument (call this the “credit interest rate”) has no relationship to the intertemporal substitution rate of theory (call this the “intertemporal interest rate.”)

Suppose you are buying a house, which you will pay for by taking out a mortgage equal to the value of the house. For simplicity we will assume an amortizing mortgage, so you make the same payment each period. We can also assume the value of housing services you receive from the house will also be the same each period. (In reality it might rise or fall, but an expectation that the house will get better over time is obviously not required for the transaction to take place.) So if the purchase is worth making at all, then it will result in a positive income to you in every period. There is no intertemporal substitution on your side. From the bank’s point of view, extending the mortgage means simultaneously creating an asset — their loan to you — and a liability — the newly created deposit you use to pay for the house. If the loan is worth making at all, then the expected payments from the mortgage exceed the expected default losses and other costs in every period. And the deposits are newly created, so no one associated with the bank has to forego any other expenditure in the present. There is no intertemporal substitution on the bank’s side either.

(It is worth noting that there are no net lenders or net borrowers in this scenario. Both sides have added an asset and a liability of equal value. The language of net lenders and net borrowers is carried over from models with consumption loans at the intertemporal interest rate. It is not relevant to the credit interest rate.)

If these transactions are income-positive for all periods for both sides, why aren’t they carried to infinity? One reason is that the yields for the home purchaser fall as more homes are purchased. In general, you will not value the housing services from a second home, or the additional housing services of a home that costs twice as much, as much as you value the housing services of the home you are buying now. But this only tells us that for any given interest rate there is a volume of mortgages at which the market will clear. It doesn’t tell us which of those mortgage volume-interest rate pairs we will actually see.

The answer is on the liquidity side. Buying a house makes you less liquid — it means you have less flexibility if you decide you’d like to move elsewhere, or if you need to reduce your housing costs because of unexpected fall in income or rise in other expenses. You also have a higher debt-income ratio, which may make it harder for you to borrow in the future. The loan also makes the bank less liquid — since its asset-capital ratio is now higher, there are more states of the world in which a fall in income would require it to sell assets or issue new liabilities to meet its scheduled commitments, which might be costly or, in a crisis, impossible. So the volume of mortgages rises until the excess of housing service value over debt service costs make taking out a mortgage just worth the incremental illiquidity for the marginal household, and where the excess of mortgage yield over funding costs makes issuing a new mortgage just worth the incremental illiquidity for the marginal bank. (Incremental illiquidity in the interbank market may — or may not — mean that funding costs rise with the volume of loans, but this is not necessary to the argument.)

Monetary policy affects the volume of these kinds of transactions by operating on the l terms. Normally, it does so by changing the quantity of liquid assets available to the financial system (and perhaps directly to the nonfinancial private sector as well). In this way the central bank makes banks (and perhaps households and businesses) more or less willing to accept the incremental illiquidity of a new loan contract. Monetary policy has nothing to do with substitution between expenditure in the present period and expenditure in some future period. Rather, it affects the terms of substitution between more and less liquid claims on income in the same future period.

Note that changing the quantity of liquid assets is not the only way the central bank can affect the liquidity premium. Banking regulation, lender of last resort operations and bailouts also change the liquidity premium, by chaining the subjective costs of bank balance sheet expansion. An expansion of the reserves available to the banking system makes it cheaper for banks to acquire a cushion to protect themselves against the possibility of an unexpected fall in income. This will make them more willing to hold relatively illiquid assets like mortgages. But a belief that the Fed will take emergency action prevent a bank from failing in the event of an unexpected fall in income also increases its willingness to hold assets like mortgages. And it does so by the same channel — reducing the liquidity premium. In this sense, there is no difference in principle between monetary policy and the central bank’s role as bank supervisor and lender of last resort. This is easy to understand once you think of “the interest rate” as the price of liquidity, but impossible to see when you think of “the interest rate” as the price of time substitution.

It is not only the central bank that changes the liquidity premium. If mortgages become more liquid — for instance through the development of a regular market in securitized mortgages — that reduces the liquidity cost of mortgage lending, exactly as looser monetary policy would.

The irrelevance of the time-substitution rate i to the credit-market interest rate y_B becomes clear when you compare observed interest rates with other prices that also should incorporate i. Courtesy of commenter rsj at Worthwhile Canadian Initiative, here’s one example: the Baa bond rate vs. the land price-rent ratio for residential property.

Both of these series are the ratio of one year’s payment from an asset, to the present value of all future payments. So they have an equal claim to be the “interest rate” of theory. But as we can see, none of the variation in credit-market interest rates (y_B, in my terms) show up in the price-rent ratio. Since variation in the time-substituion rate i should affect both ratios equally, this implies that none of the variation in credit-market interest rates is driven by changes in the time-substitution interest rate. The two “interest rates” have nothing to do with each other.

(Continued here.)

EDIT: Doesn’t it seem strange that I first assert that mortgages do not incorporate the intertemporal interest rate, then use the house price-rent ratio as an example of a price that should incorporate that rate? One reason to do this is to test the counterfactual claim that interest rates do, after all, incorporate Samuelson’s interest rate i. If i were important in both series, they should move together; if they don’t, it might be important in one, or in neither.

But beyond that, I think housing purchases do have an important intertemporal component, in a way that loan contracts do not. That’s because (with certain important exceptions we are all aware of) houses are not normally purchased entirely on credit. A substantial fraction of the price is paid is upfront. In effect, most house purchases are two separate transactions bundled together: A credit transaction (for, say, 80 percent of the house value) in which both parties expect positive income in all periods, at the cost of less liquid balance sheets; and a conceptually separate cash transaction (for, say, 20 percent) in which the buyer foregoes present expenditure in return for a stream of housing services in the future. Because house purchases must clear both of these markets, they incorporate i in way that loans do not. But note, i enters into house prices only to the extent that the credit-market interest rate does not. The more important the credit-market interest rate is in a given housing purchase, the less important the intertemporal interest rate is.

This is true in general, I think. Credit markets are not a means of trading off the present against the future. They are a means of avoiding tradeoffs between the present and the future.

## The Puzzle of Profits

Part II of Capital begins with a puzzle: In markets, commodities are supposed to trade only for other commodities of equal value, yet somehow capitalists end up with more value than they start with.

In the world of simple exchange, money is just a convenience for enabling the exchange of commodities: C-M-C is easier to arrange than C-C. But profit-making business is different: the sequence there is M-C-M’. The capitalist enters the market and buys some commodities for a certain sum of money. Later, he sells some commodities, and has a larger sum of money. This increase — from M to M’ — is the whole point of being capitalist. But in a world of free market exchange, how can it exist?

Let’s put some obvious misunderstandings out of the way. There’s nothing mysterious about the fact that people can accomplish things with tools and previously acquired materials that they would be unable to with unaided labor. The problem is not that “capital,” in the sense of a stock of tools and materials, is productive in this sense. To the extent that what appears as “profit” in the national accounts is just the cost of replacing worn-out tools and materials, there’s no puzzle. [1]

The mystery is, how can someone enter the market with money and, after some series of exchanges, exit with more money? In the sequence M-C-M’, how can M’ be greater than M? How can the mere possession of money seemingly allow one to acquire more money, seemingly without end?

Before trying to understand Marx’s answer, let’s consider how non-Marxist economists answer this question.

1. Truck and barter. The most popular answer, among both classical and modern economists, is that the M-C-M’ sequence does not exist. All economic activity is aimed at consumption, market exchange is only intended to acquire specific use-values; when you think you see M-C-M you’re really looking at part of some C-M-C sequence(s). The classical economists are full of blunt statements that the only possible end of exchange is consumption. In today’s economics we find this assumption in the form of the “transversality condition” that says that wealth must go to zero as time goes to infinity. That’s right, it is an axiom in modern economics that accumulation cannot be a goal in itself. Or in the words of Simon Wren-Lewis (my new go-to source for the unexamined conventional wisdom of economists): “It would be stupid to accumulate infinite wealth.” Well OK then!

2. You earned it. Another answer is that the capitalist brings some additional unmeasured commodity to the production process. They are providing not just money M but also management ability, risk-bearing capacity, etc. In this view, if we correctly measured inputs, we would find that  M’=M. In its most blatantly apologetic form this is effectively skewered by comrades Ackerman and Beggs in the current Jacobin. For unincorporated businesses, it is true, it is not straightforward to distinguish between profits proper and the wages of managerial labor, but that can’t account for profits in general, or for the skewed distribution of income across households. If anything, much of what is reported as managerial salaries should probably be called profits. This is a point made in different ways by Piketty and Saez  and Dumenil and Levy; you can also find it offered as straightforward business advice.

3. It was the pictures that got small. The other main classical answer is that profit is the reward for “abstinence” (Senior) or “waiting” (Cassel). (I guess this is also the theory of Bohm-Bawerk and the other Austrians, but I admit I don’t know much about that stuff.) It appears today as a discount rate on future consumption. This invites the same question as the first answer: Is capitalist accumulation really motivated by future consumption? It also invites a second question: In what sense is a good tomorrow less valuable than the same good today? Is the utility derived from a glass of wine in 2013 really less than the utility derived from the same glass consumed in 2012,or 2010, or 1995? (So far this has not been my experience.) The logically consistent answer, if you want to defend profit as the return to waiting, is to say Yes. The capital owner’s pure time preference then represents an objective inferiority of output at a later date compared with the same output at an earlier date.

This is a logically consistent answer to the profits puzzle, and it could even be true with the right assumptions about the probability of an extinction-event asteroid impact/Khmer Rouge takeover/zombie apocalypse. With a sufficiently high estimate of the probability of some such contingency, M’ is really equal to M when discounted appropriately; capitalists aren’t really gaining anything when you take into account their odds of being eaten by zombies and/or suffocated by plastic bag, before they get to enjoy their profits. [2]  But I don’t think anyone wants to really own this point of view — to hold it consistently you must believe that economic activity becomes objectively less able to satisfy human needs as time goes by. [3]

4. Oops, underpaid again. We can take the same “profit as reward for waiting” idea, but instead of seeing a pure time preference as consistent with rational behavior, as modern economists (somehow) do, instead interpret it like the classical economists (including Cassel, whose fascinating Nature and Necessity of Interest I just read), as a psychological or sociological phenomenon. Consumption in the future is objectively identical to the same consumption today, but people for some reason fail to assign it the same subjective value it the same. Either they suffer from a lack of “telescopic facility,” or, in Cassel’s (and Leijonhufvud’s) more sophisticated formulation, the discount rate is a reflection of the human life expectancy: People are not motivated to provide for their descendants beyond their children, and future generations are not around to bargain for themselves. Either way, the outcome is that exchange does not happen at value — production is systematically organized around a higher valuation of goods today than goods tomorrow, even though their actual capacity to provide for satisfaction of human needs is the same. Which implies that workers — who provide labor today for a good tomorrow — are systematically underpaid.

5. Property is theft. The last and simplest possibility is that profits are always just rents. Capitalists and workers start out as just “agents” with their respective “endowments.” By whatever accident of circumstances, the former just end up underpaying the latter. Maybe they are better informed.

We could develop all these points further — and will, I hope, in the future. But I want to move on to (my idea of) Marx’s answer to the puzzle.

One other thing to clear up first: profit versus interest. Both refer to money tomorrow you receive by virtue of possessing money today. The difference is that in the case of profit, you must purchase and sell commodities in between. What is the relationship between these two forms of income? For someone like Cassel, interest has priority; profit is a derived form combining interest with income from managerial skill and/or a rent. For Marx on the other hand, and also for Smith, Ricardo, etc., profit is the primitive and interest is the derived form; interest is redistribution of profits already earned in production. (Smith: “The interest of money is always a derivative revenue, which, if it is not paid from the profit which is made by the use of the money, must be paid from some other source of revenue.”) In other words, are profits an addition to interest, or is interest as a subtraction from profit? For Marx, the latter. The fundamental question is how money profits can arise through exchange of commodities. [4]

Marx gives his answer in chapter four: The capitalist purchases labor-power at its value, but gets the results of the labor expended by that labor-power. The latter exceeds the former. In other words, people are capable of producing more than it takes to reproduce themselves, and that increment is captured by the capitalist. In four hours, you can produce what you need to live on. The next four or six or eight or twelve hours, you are working for The Man.

This is the answer, as Marx gives it. Labor power is paid for at its value. But having purchased labor power, the capitalist now has access to living labor, which can produce more than the the cost of its own reproduction.

I think this is right. But it’s not really a satisfactory answer, is it? It’s formally correct. But what does it mean?

One way of fleshing it out is to ask: Why is it even possible that labor can produce more than the reproduction-costs of labor power? Think of Ricardo’s world. Profits are positive because we have not yet reached the steady state — there are still natural resources available whose more intensive use will yield a surplus beyond the cost of the labor and capital required to use them. The capitalist captures that surplus because capital has the short side of both markets — there is currently excess land going unutilized, and excess labor going unutilized. [5]

Another way: There is something in the production process other than exchange, but which is captured via exchange.

I want to think of it this way: Humanity does have the ability to increase social value of output, or in other words the aggregate capacity to satisfy human needs from nature does in general grow over time. This “growth” happens through our collective creative interchange with nature — it is about pushing into the unknown, a process of discovery — it is not captured beforehand in the market values of commodities.

In a proper market, you cannot exchange a good in your possession for a good with a greater value, that is, with a greater capacity to satisfy human needs in general. (Your own particular needs, yes.) But you can, through creative activity, through a development of your own potential, increase the general level of satisfaction of human needs. The capitalist by buying labor power at its value, is able to capture this creative increment and call it their private property.

Our potential is realized through a creative interchange with nature. It’s not known in advance. What can we do, what can’t we do — we only learn by trying. We push against the world, and discover how the world pushes back, in so doing understand it better and find how it can be reshaped to better suit our needs. Individually or collectively, it’s a process of active discovery.

You as a person can exchange the various things you are in possession of, including your labor power, for other things of equal value. (Though for different use values, which are more desired by you.) But you will also discover, through a process of active learning and struggle, what you are capable of, what are the limits of your powers, what creative work you can do that you cannot fully conceive of now.

Through the process of education, you don’t just acquire something that you understood clearly at the outset. You transform yourself and learn things you didn’t even know you didn’t know. When you do creative work you don’t know what the finished product will be until you’ve finished it. I still — and I hope for the rest of my life — find myself reading economics and having those aha moments where you say, “oh that’s what this debate is all about, I never got it before!” And science and technology above all involve the discovery of new possibilities through a process of active pushing against the limits of our knowledge of the world.

The results of these active process of self-development and exploration form use-values, but they are not commodities. They were not produced for exchange. They were not even known of before they came into being. But while they are not themselves commodities, they are attached to commodities, they cannot be realized except through existing commodities. I may produce in myself, through this process of self-testing, a capacity for musical performance, let’s say. But I cannot realize this capacity without, at least, a sufficient claim on my own time, and probably also concrete use-values in the form of an instrument, an appropriate performance space, etc., and also some claim on the time of others. In this case one can imagine acquiring these things individually, but many — increasingly over time — processes of self-discovery are inherently collective. Science and technology especially. So specifically a discovery that allows cheaper production of an existing commodity, or the creation of a new commodity with new use-values, can only become become concrete in the hands of those who control the process of production of commodities. By purchasing labor power — in the market, at its value — capitalists gain control of the production process. They are thus able to claim the fruits of humanity’s collective self-discovery and interchange with nature as their own private property.

In some cases, this is quite literal. Recall Smith’s argument that one of the great advantages of the division of labor is that it allows specialized workers to discover improved ways of carrying out their tasks. “A great part of the machines made use of in those manufactures in which labour is most subdivided, were originally the inventions of common workmen, who, being each of them employed in some very simple operation, naturally turned their thoughts towards finding out easier and readier methods of performing it.” Who do you think gained the surplus from these inventions? This still happens. Read any good account of work under capitalism, like Barbara Garson’s classic books All the Livelong Day and The Electronic Sweatshop. You’ll find people actively struggling to do their jobs better — the customer service representative who wants to get the caller to the person who can actually solve their problem, the bookshelf installer who wants it to fit in the room just right. The results of these struggles are realized as profits for their employers. But these are exceptional. The normal case today is the large-scale collective process of discovery, which is then privately appropriated. Every new technology draws on a vast history of publicly-available scientific work — sometimes we see this directly as with biomedical research, but even when it’s not so obvious it’s still there. Every Hollywood movie draws on a vast collective project of storytelling, a general collective effort to imbue certain symbols with meaning. Again see this most directly in the movies that draw on folktales and other public-domain work, but it’s true generically.

It is this vast collective effort at transformation of nature and ourselves that allows the value of output to be greater than the value of what existed before it. Without it, we would eventually reach the classical steady state where the exercise of labor could produce no more than the value of the labor power that yielded it. So when Marx says the source of profits is the fact that labor can produce more than the value of labor power, lying behind this is the fact that, due to humanity’s collective creative efforts, we are continuing to find new ways to shape the world to our use.

Capital is coordination before it is tangible means of production. Initially (logically and historically) the capitalist simply occupies a strategic point in exchange between independent producers thanks to the possession of liquid wealth; but as the extension of the division of labor requires more detailed coordination between the separate producers, the capitalist takes over a more direct role in managing production itself. “That a capitalist should command on the field of production, is now as indispensable as that a general should command on the field of battle.”

There is another way of looking at this: in terms of the extension of cooperation and the division of labor, which is realized in and through capitalist production, but in principle is independent of it. I’ll take this up in a following post.

[1] Marx makes this point clearly in his critique of the Gotha program.  Elimination of surplus as such cannot be a goal of socialism.

[2] It would seem that we have enough evidence to rule out a sufficiently high probability of world-ending catastrophe to explain observed interest rates, assuming the minimum possible return on accumulated wealth is zero. But of course in some conceivable circumstances it could be negative — that’s why I include the Khmer Rouge takeover, where your chance of summary execution is presumably positively related to your accumulated wealth. Also, maybe we have reason to think that  catastrophe is more likely in the future than we would naively infer from the past. It would be funny if someone tried to explain interest rates in terms of the doomsday argument.

[3] There has been a lot of discussion of appropriate social discount rates in the context of climate change. But nobody in that debate, as far as I can tell, takes the logical next step of arguing that excessively high discount rates imply a comprehensive market failure, not just with respect to climate change. There is not a special social discount rate for climate, there is an appropriate social discount rate for all future costs and benefits. If market interest rates are not the right tool for weighing current costs against future benefits for climate, they are not the right guide for anything, including the market activities where they currently govern.

[4] Yes, interest exists independently of profits from production, and indeed is much older. Marx recognizes this. But capitalism is not generalized usury.
[5]  And substitution between factors is impossible — Marx’s “iron law of proportions” — or at least limited.

## “The Labouring Classes Should Have a Taste for Comforts and Enjoyments”

McDonald’s model budget for its minimum-wage employees — along with the smug, fatuous, those-people-aren’t-like-us-dear defenses of it — has been the target of well-deserved scorn.

This kind of thing has been around forever (or at least as long as capitalism). Two hundred years ago, liberal reformers offered “Promoting Sobriety and Frugality, and an Abhorrence of Gaming”as the solution to the collapse of wages following the Napoleonic wars, and gave workers instruction on “the use of roasted wheat as a substitute for coffee.” You could make an endless list of these helpful suggestions to the poor to better manage their poverty.

To be fair, liberals today do mostly see this stuff as, at best, an effort by low-wage employers to divert attention from their own compensation policies to the personal responsibility of their workers. And at worst, when the budget help includes assistance enrolling in Medicaid or the EITC, as a way of getting the public to subsidize low-wage employment.

But there’s a nagging sense in these conversations that, disingenuous as McDonald’s is here, still, at the end of the day, frugality, living within one’s means, is a virtue; that the ability to prioritize expenses and make a budget is a useful skill to have. Against that view, here’s Ricardo on wages:

It is not to be understood that the natural price of labour, estimated even in food and necessaries, is absolutely fixed and constant. … It essentially depends on the habits and customs of the people. An English labourer would consider his wages under their natural rate, and too scanty to support a family, if they enabled him to purchase no other food than potatoes, and to live in no better habitation than a mud cabin; yet these moderate demands of nature are often deemed sufficient in countries where ‘man’s life is cheap’, and his wants easily satisfied. Many of the conveniences now enjoyed in an English cottage, would have been thought luxuries at an earlier period of our history.

The friends of humanity cannot but wish that in all countries the labouring classes should have a taste for comforts and enjoyments, and that they should be stimulated by all legal means in their exertions to procure them. … In those countries, where the labouring classes have the fewest wants, and are contented with the cheapest food, the people are exposed to the greatest vicissitudes and miseries.

In a world where the price of labor power depends on its cost, there’s no benefit to workers from budgeting responsibly, from learning to get by on less. The less people can live on, the lower wages will be. On the other hand, to the extent that former luxuries — a decent car, some nice clothes, dinner out once in a while, whatever consumer electronics item the scolds are going on about now — come to be seen as necessities, such that it’s not worth putting up with the bullshit of a job if you still can’t afford them, then wages will have to rise enough to cover that too.

For much of the 20th century, it seemed like we had left Ricardo’s world behind. Among economists, it became a well-established stylized fact that it’s the wage share, not the real wage that is relatively fixed. To even sympathetic critics of Marx, the failure of real wages to gravitate toward a (socially determined) subsistence level looked like a major departure of modern economies from the capitalism he described.

These days, though, the world is looking more Ricardian. For the majority of workers without credentials or other shelter from the logic of the labor market, real wages look less like a technologically-fixed share of output than the minimum necessary to keep people participating in wage labor at all. In the subsistence-wage world of industrializing Britain, workers’ “frugality, discipline or acquisitive virtues brought profit to their masters rather than success to themselves.”  Conversely, in that world, which may also be our world, profligacy, waste and irresponsibility could be a kind of solidarity.

I would never presume to tell someone surviving on a minimum-wage paycheck how to live their life. I know that being poor is incredibly hard work, in a way that those of us who haven’t experienced it can hardly imagine.  But as a friend of humanity, I do worry that the biggest danger isn’t that people can’t live on the minimum wage, but that they can. In which case we’re all better off if McDonald’s employees throw the bosses’ helpful budget advice away.

## “Recession Is a Time of Harvest”

Noah and Seth say pretty much everything that needs to be said about this latest #Slatepitch provocation from Matt Yglesias.  [1] So, traa dy lioaur, I am going to say something that does not need to be said, but is possibly interesting.

Yglesias claims that “the left” is wrong to focus on efforts to increase workers’ money incomes, because higher wages just mean higher prices. Real improvements in workers’ living standards — he says — come from the same source as improvements for rich people, namely technological innovation. What matters is rising productivity, and a rise in productivity necessarily means a fall in (someone’s) nominal income. So we need to forget about raising the incomes of particular people and trust the technological tide to lift all boats.

As Noah and Seth say, the logic here is broken in several places. Rising productivity in a particular sector can raise incomes in that sector as easily as reduce them. Changes in wages aren’t always passed through to prices, they can also reflect changes in the distribution between wages and other income.

I agree, it’s definitely wrong as a matter of principle to say that there’s no link, or a negative link, between changes in nominal wages and changes in the real standard of living. But what kind of link is there, actually? What did our forebears think?

Keynes notoriously took the Yglesias line in the General Theory, arguing that real and nominal wages normally moved in opposite directions. He later retracted this view, the only major error he conceded in the GT (which makes it a bit unfortunate that it’s also the book’s first substantive claim.) Schumpeter made a similar argument in Business Cycles, suggesting that the most rapid “progress in the standard of life of the working classes” came in periods of deflation, like 1873-1897. Marx on the other hand generally assumed that the wage was set in real terms, so as a first approximation we should expect higher productivity in wage-good industries to lead to lower money wages, and leave workers’ real standard of living unchanged. Productivity in this framework (and in post-GT Keynes) does set a ceiling on wages, but actual wages are almost well below this, with their level set by social norms and the relative power of workers and employers.

But back to Schumpeter and the earlier Keynes. It’s worth taking a moment to think through why they thought there would be a negative relationship between nominal and real wages, to get a better understanding of when we might expect such a relationship.

For Keynes, the logic is simple. Wages are equal to marginal product. Output is produced in conditions of declining marginal returns. (Both of assumptions are wrong, as he conceded in the 1939 article.) So when employment is high, the real wage must be low. Nominal wages and prices generally move proportionately, however, rising in booms and falling in slumps. (This part is right.) So we should expect a move toward higher employment to be associated with rising nominal wages, even though real wages must fall. You still hear this exact argument from people like David Glasner.

Schumpeter’s argument is more interesting. His starting point is that new investment is not generally financed out of savings, but by purchasing power newly created by banks. Innovations are almost never carried out by incumbent producers simply adopting the new process in place of the existing one, but rather by some new entrant — the famous entrepreneur– operating with borrowed funds. This means that the entrepreneur must bid away labor and other inputs from their current uses (importantly, Schumpeter assumes full employment) pushing up costs and prices. Furthermore, there will be some extended period of demand from the new entrants for labor and intermediate goods while the incumbents have not yet reduced theirs — the initial period of investment in the new process (and various ancillary processes — Schumpeter is thinking especially of major innovations like railroads, which will increase demand in a whole range of related industries), and later periods where the new entrants are producing but don’t yet have a decisive cost advantage, and a further period where the incumbents are operating at a loss before they finally exit. So major innovations tend to involve extended periods of rising prices. It’s only once the new producers have thoroughly displaced the old ones that demand and prices fall back to their old level. But it’s also only then that the gains from the innovation are fully realized. As he puts it (page 148):

Times of innovation are times of effort and sacrifice, of work for the future, while the harvest comes after… ; and that the harvest is gathered under recessive symptoms and with more anxiety than rejoicing … does not alter the principle. Recession [is] a time of harvesting the results of preceding innovation…

I don’t think Schumpeter was wrong when he wrote. There is probably some truth to idea that falling prices and real wages went together in 19th century. (Maybe by 1939, he was wrong.)

I’m interested in Schumpeter’s story, though, as more than just intellectual history, fascinating tho that is. Todays consensus says that technology determines the long-term path of the economy, aggregate demand determines cyclical deviations from that path, and never the twain shall meet. But that’s not the only possibility. We talked the other day about demand dynamics not as — as in conventional theory — deviations from the growth path in response to exogenous shocks, but as an endogenous process that may, or may not, occasionally converge to a long-term growth trajectory, which it also affects.

In those Harrod-type models, investment is simply required for higher output — there’s no innovation or autonomous investment booms. Those are where Schumpeter comes in. What I like about his vision is it makes it clear that periods of major innovation, major shifts from one production process to another, are associated with higher demand — the major new plant and equipment they require, the reorganization of the spatial and social organization of production they entail (“new plant, new firms, new men,” as he says) make large additional claims on society’s resources. This is the opposite of the “great recalculation” claim we were hearing a couple years ago, about how high unemployment was a necessary accompaniment to major geographic or sectoral shifts in output; and also of the more sophisticated version of the recalculation argument that Joe Stiglitz has been developing. [2] Schumpeter is right, I think, when he explicitly says that if we really were dealing with “recalculation” by a socialist planner, then yes, we might see labor and resources withdrawn from the old industries first, and only then deployed to the new ones. But under capitalism things don’t work like that  (page 110-111):

Since the central authority of the socialist state controls all existing means of production, all it has to do in case it decides to set up new production functions is simply to issue orders to those in charge of the productive functions to withdraw part of them from the employments in which they are engaged, and to apply the quantities so withdrawn to the new purposes envisaged. We may think of a kind of Gosplan as an illustration. In capitalist society the means of production required must also be … [redirected] but, being privately owned, they must be bought in their respective markets. The issue to the entrepreneurs of new means of payments created ad hoc [by banks] is … what corresponds in capitalist society to the order issued by the central bureau in the socialist state.

In both cases, the carrying into effect of an innovation involves, not primarily an increase in existing factors of production, but the shifting of existing factors from old to new uses. There is, however, this difference between the two methods of shifting the factors : in the case of the socialist community the new order to those in charge of the factors cancels the old one. If innovation were financed by savings, the capitalist method would be analogous… But if innovation is financed by credit creation, the shifting of the factors is effected not by the withdrawal of funds—”canceling the old order”—from the old firms, but by … newly created funds put at the disposal of entrepreneurs : the new “order to the factors” comes, as it were, on top of the old one, which is not thereby canceled.

This vision of banks as capitalist Gosplan, but with the limitation that they can only give orders for new production on top of existing production, seems right to me. It might have been written precisely as a rebuttal to the “recalculation” arguments, which explicitly imagined capitalist investment as being guided by a central planner. It’s also a corrective to the story implied in the Slate piece, where one day there are people driving taxis and the next day there’s a fleet of automated cars. [3] Before that can happen, there’s a long period of research, investment, development — engineers are getting paid, the technology is getting designed and tested and marketed, plants are being built and equipment installed — before the first taxi driver loses a dollar of income. And even once the driverless cars come on line, many of the new companies will fail, and many of the old drivers will hold on for as long as their credit lasts. Both sets of loss-making enterprises have high expenditure relative to their income, which by definition boosts aggregate demand. In short, a period of major innovations must be a period of rising nominal incomes — as we most recently saw, on a moderate scale, in the late 1990s.

Now for Schumpeter, this was symmetrical: High demand and rising prices in the boom were balanced by falling prices in the recession — the “harvest” of the fruits of innovation. And it was in the recession that real wages rose. This was related to his assumption that the excess demand from the entrepreneurs mainly bid up the price of the fixed stock of factors of production, rather than activating un- or underused factors. Today, of course, deflation is extremely rare (and catastrophic), and output and employment vary more over the cycle than wages and prices do. And there is a basic asymmetry between the boom and the bust. New capital can be added very rapidly in growing enterprises, in principle; but gross investment in the declining incumbents cannot fall below zero. So aggregate investment will always be highest when there are large shifts taking place between sectors or processes. Add to this that new industries will take time to develop the corespective market structure that protects firms in capital-intensive industries from cutthroat competition, so they are more likely to see “excess” investment. And in a Keynesian world, the incomes from innovation-driven investment will also boost consumption, and investment in other sectors. So major innovations are likely to be associated with booms, with rising prices and real wages.

So, but: Why do we care what Schumpeter thought 75 years ago, especially if we think half of it no longer holds? Well, it’s always interesting to see how much today’s debates rehash the classics. More importantly, Schumpeter is one of the few economists to have focused on the relation of innovation, finance and aggregate demand (even if, like a good Wicksellian, he thought the latter was important only for the price level); so working through his arguments is a useful exercise if we want to think more systematically about this stuff ourselves. I realize that as a response to Matt Y.’s silly piece, this post is both too much and poorly aimed. But as I say, Seth and Noah have done what’s needed there. I’m more interested in what relationship we think does hold, between innovation and growth, the price level, and wages.

As an economist, my objection to the Yglesias column (and to stuff like the Stiglitz paper, which it’s a kind of bowdlerization of) is that the intuition that connects rising real incomes to falling nominal incomes is just wrong, for the reasons sketched out above. But shouldn’t we also say something on behalf of “the left” about the substantive issue? OK, then: It’s about distribution. You might say that the functional distribution is more or less stable in practice. But if that’s true at all, it’s only over the very long run, it certainly isn’t in the short or medium run — as Seth points out, the share of wages in the US is distinctly lower than it was 25 years ago. And even to the extent it is true, it’s only because workers (and, yes, the left) insist that nominal wages rise. Yglesias here sounds a bit like the anti-environmentalists who argue that the fact that rivers are cleaner now than when the Clean Water Act was passed, shows it was never needed. More fundamentally, as a leftist, I don’t agree with Yglesias that the only important thing about income is the basket of stuff it procures. There’s overwhelming reason — both first-principle and empirical — to believe that in advanced countries, relative income, and the power, status and security it conveys, is vastly more important than absolute income. “Don’t worry about conflicting interests or who wins or loses, just let the experts make things better for everyone”: It’s an uncharitable reading of the spirit behind this post, but is it an entirely wrong one?

UPDATE: On the other hand. In his essay on machine-breaking, Eric Hobsbawm observes that in 18th century England,

miners’ riots were still directed against high food prices, and the profiteers believed to be responsible for them.

And of course more generally, there have been plenty of working-class protests and left political programs aimed at reducing the cost of living, as well as raising wages. Food riots are a major form of popular protest historically, subsidies for food and other necessities are a staple policy of newly independent states in the third world (and, I suspect, also disapproved by the gentlemen of Slate), and food prices are a preoccupation of plenty of smart people on the left. (Not to mention people like this guy.) So Yglesias’s notion that “the left” ignores this stuff is stupid. But if we get past the polemics, there is an interesting question here, which is why mass politics based around people’s common interests as workers is so much more widespread and effective than this kind of politics around the cost of living. Or, maybe better, why one kind of conflict is salient in some times and places and the other kind of conflict in others; and of course in some, both.

[1] Seth’s piece in particular is a really masterful bit of polemic. He apologizes for responding to trollery, which, yeah, the Yglesias post arguably is. But if you must feed trolls, this is how it’s done. I’m not sure if the metaphor requires filet mignon and black caviar, or dogshit garnished with cigarette butts, or fresh human babies, but whatever it is you should ideally feed a troll, Seth serves it up.

[2] It appears that Stiglitz’s coauthor Bruce Greenwald came up with this first, and it was adopted by right-wing libertarians like Arnold Kling afterwards.

[3] I admit I’m rather skeptical about the prospects for driverless cars. Partly it’s that the point is they can operate with much smaller error tolerances than existing cars — “bumper to bumper at highway speeds” is the line you always hear — but no matter how inherently reliable the technology, these things are going to be owned maintained by millions of individual nonprofessionals. Imagine a train where the passengers in each car were responsible for making sure it was securely coupled to the next one. Yeah, no. But I think there’s an even more profound reason, connected to the kinds of risk we will and will not tolerate. I was talking to my friend E. about this a while back, and she said something interesting: “People will never accept it, because no one is responsible for an accident. Right now, if  there’s a bad accident you can deal with it by figuring out who’s at fault. But if there were no one you could blame, no one you could punish, if it were just something that happened — no one would put up with that.” I think that’s right. I think that’s one reason we’re much more tolerant of car accidents than plane accidents, there’s a sense that in a car accident at least one of the people involved must be morally responsible. Totally unrelated to this post, but it’s a topic I’d like to return to at some point — that what moral agency really means, is a social convention that we treat causal chains as being broken at certain points — that in some contexts we treat people’s actions as absolutely indeterminate. That there are some kinds of in principle predictable actions by other people that we act — that we are morally obliged to act — as if we cannot predict.

## Are Wages Too High?

Here’s a good one for the right-for-the-wrong-reasons file.

David Glasner is one of an increasing number of Fed critics who would like to see a higher inflation target. Today, he takes aim at a Wall Street Journal editorial that claims that the real victims of cheaper money wouldn’t be, you know, people who own money — creditors — as one might think, but working people. Higher inflation just means lower real wages, says the Journal. Crocodile tears, says Glasner — since when does the Journal care about wage workers? So far, so good, says me.

“What makes this argument so disreputable,”he goes on,

is not just the obviously insincere pretense of concern for the welfare of the working class, but the dishonest implication that employment in a recession or depression can be increased without an, at least temporary, reduction in real wages. Rising unemployment during a contraction implies that real wages are, in some sense, too high, so that a falling real wage tends to be a characteristic of any recovery, at least in its early stages. The only question is whether the falling real wage is brought about through prices rising faster than wages or by wages falling faster than prices. If the Wall Street Journal and other opponents of rising prices don’t want prices to erode real wages, they are ipso facto in favor of falling money wages.

And here we have taken a serious wrong turn.

Glasner is certainly not alone in thinking that rising prices are associated with falling real wages, and vice versa. And he’s also got plenty of company in his belief that since the wage is equal to the marginal product of labor, and marginal products should decline, in the short run higher employment implies a lower real wage. But is he right? Is it true that if employment is to rise, “the only question” is whether wages fall directly or via inflation? Is it true that unemployment necessarily means that wages are too high?

Empirically, it seems questionable. Let’s look at unemployment and wages in the past few decades in the United States. The graph below shows the real hourly wage on the x-axis and the unemployment rate on the y-axis. The red dots show the two years after the peak of unemployment in each of the past five recessions. If reducing unemployment always required lower real wages, the red dots should consistently make upward sloping lines. The real picture, though, is more complicated.

As we can see, the early 2000s recovery and, arguably, the early 1980s recovery were associated with falling real wages. but in the early 1990s, employment recovered with constant real wages — that’s what the vertical line over on the left means. And in the two recessions of the 1970s, the recoveries combined falling unemployment with strongly rising real wages. If we look at other advanced countries, it’s this last pattern we see most often. (I show some examples after the fold.) So while rising employment is sometimes accompanied by a falling real wage, it is clearly not true that, as Glasner claims, it necessarily must be.

This is an important question to get straight. There seems to be a certain convergence happening between progressive-liberal economists and neo-monetarists like Glasner on the desirability of higher inflation in general and nominal GDP targeting in particular. There’s something to be said for this; inflation is the course of least resistance to cancel the debts. But we in the party of movement can’t support this idea or make it part of a broader popular economic program if it’s really a stalking horse for lower wages.

Fortunately, the macroeconomic benefits of a rising price level don’t depend on a falling real wage.
More broadly, the idea that reducing unemployment necessarily means reducing wages doesn’t hold up. It’s wrong empirically, and it involves a basic misunderstanding of what’s going on in recessions.

Yes, labor is idle in a recession, but does that mean its price, the wage, is too high? There is also more excess capacity in the capital stock in a recession; by the same logic, that would mean profits are too high. Real estate vacancy rates are high in a recession, so rents must also be too high. In fact, every factor of production is underutilized in recessions, but it’s logically impossible for the relative price of all factors to be too high. A shortfall in demand for output as a whole (or excess demand for the means of payment, if you’re a monetarist) doesn’t tell us anything about whether relative prices are out of line, or in which direction. If we were seeing technological unemployment — people thrown out of work by the adoption of more capital-intensive forms of production — then there might be something to the statement that “unemployment … implies that real wages are, in some sense, too high.” But that’s not what we see in recessions at all.

Glasner is hardly the only one who thinks that unemployment must somehow involve excessive wages. If he were, he’d hardly be worth arguing with. It’s a common view today, and it was even more common before World War II. Glasner quotes Mises (yikes!), but Schumpeter said the same thing. More interestingly, so did Keynes. In Chapter Two of the General Theory, he announces that he is not challenging what he calls the first postulate of the classical theory of employment, that the wage is equal to the marginal product of labor. And he draws the same conclusion from this that Glasner does:

with a given organisation, equipment and technique, real wages and the volume of output (and hence of employment) are uniquely correlated, so that, in general, an increase in employment can only occur to the accompaniment of a decline in the rate of real wages. Thus I am not disputing this vital fact which the classical economists have (rightly) asserted… [that] the real wage earned by a unit of labour has a unique (inverse) correlation with the volume of employment. Thus if employment increases, then, in the short period, the reward per unit of labour in terms of wage-goods must, in general, decline… This is simply the obverse of the familiar proposition that industry is normally working subject to decreasing returns… So long, indeed, as this proposition holds, any means of increasing employment must lead at the same time to a diminution of the marginal product and hence of the rate of wages measured in terms of this product.

So, wait, if Keynes says it then it can’t be a basic misunderstanding of the principle of aggregate demand, can it? Well, here’s where things get interesting.

Keynes didn’t participate much in the academic discussions following the The General Theory; the last decade of his life was taken up with practical policy work. (As Hyman Minsky observed, this may be one reason why many of his more profound ideas never made into postwar Keynesianism.) But he take part in a discussion in the pages of the Quarterly Journal of Economics, in which the “most important” contribution, per Keynes, was from Jacob Viner, who zeroed in on exactly this question. Viner:

Keynes’ reasoning points obviously to the superiority of inflationary remedies for unemployment over money-wage reductions. … there would be a constant race between the printing press and the business agents of the trade unions, with the problem of unemployment largely solved if the printing press could maintain a constant lead…  [But] Keynes follows the classical doctrine too closely when he concedes that “an increase in employment can only occur to the accompaniment of a decline in the rate of real wages.” This conclusion results from too unqualified an application of law-of-diminishing-returns analysis, and needs to be modified for cyclical unemployment… If a plant geared to work at say 80 per cent of rated capacity is being operated at say only 30 per cent, both the per capita and the marginal output of labor may well be lower at the low rate of operations than at the higher rate, the law of diminishing returns notwithstanding. There is the further empirical consideration that if employers operate in their wage policy in accordance with marginal cost analysis, it is done only imperfectly and unconsciously…

Viner makes two key points here: First, it is not necessarily the case that the marginal product of labor declines with output, especially in a recession or depression when businesses are producing well below capacity. And second, the assumption that wages are equal to marginal product is not a safe one. A third criticism came from Kalecki, that under imperfect competition firms would not set price equal to marginal cost but at some markup above it, a markup that will vary over the course of the business cycle. Keynes fully agreed that all three criticisms — along with some others, which seem less central to me — were correct, and that the first classical postulate was no better grounded than the second. In what I believe was his last substantive economic publication, a 1939 article in the Economic Journal, he returned to the question, showing that it was not true empirically that real wage fall when employment rises and exploring why he and other economists had gotten this wrong. The claim that higher employment must be accommpanied by a lower real wage, he wrote, “is the portion of my book which most needs to be revised.” Indeed, it was the only substantive modification of the argument of the General Theory that he made in his lifetime.

I bring all this up because — well, partly just because I think it’s interesting. But it’s worth being reminded, how much of our current economic debate is  recapitulating what people were figuring out in the 1930s. And it’s interesting to see how just how seductive is the idea that high unemployment means that “real wages are, in some sense, too high.” Even Keynes had to be talked out of it, even though it runs counter to the logic of his whole system, and even though there’s no good theoretical or empirical reason to believe it’s true.

Right, back to empirics. Here are a few more graphs, showing, like the US one above, unemployment on the vertical axis and real hourly wages on the horizontal. Data is from the OECD.

The first picture shows five Western European countries in the decade before the crisis. The important part is the left side; what you see there is that in all five countries unemployment fell sharply in the late 90s/early 2000s, even while real wages increased. In Belgium, for example, unemployment fell from 10 percent to a bit over six percent between 1996 and 2002, at the same time as real wages rose by close to 10 percent. The other four (and almost every country in the EU) show similar patterns.

The second one shows Korea. The 1997 Asian crisis is clearly visible here as the huge spike in unemployment in the middle of the graph. But what’s relevant here is the way it seems to slope backward. That’s because real wages fell along with employment in the crisis, and rose with employment in the recovery. Over the same period that unemployment comes back down from 8 to 4 percent, the real wage index rises from 70 to 80. This is the opposite of what we would expect in the Glasner story.

The third one shows Australia and New Zealand. Australia shows two periods of sharply falling unemployment — one in the 1980s accompanied by flat wages (a vertical line) and one in the 1990s accompanied by rising wages. Of all these countries, only New Zealand’s recoveries show a pattern of falling unemployment accompanied by falling real wages — clearly after 1992, and for a quarter or two in 2000.

You may object that these are mostly small open economies. So while the real wage is deflated by the domestic price level, the real question is whether labor costs are rising or falling relative to trade partners. If employment and wages are rising together, that probably just means the currency is depreciating. I don’t think this is true either. Countries often improve their trade balance even when real wages as measured in a common currency are rising, and conversely. That’s “Kaldor’s paradox” — countries with persistently strengthening trade balances tend to be precisely those with rising relative labor costs. But that will have to wait for a future post.

UPDATE: In comments, Will Boisvert calls the graphs above the worst he’s ever seen. OK!

So, here is the same data presented in a hopefully more legible way. The red line is unemployment, the blue line is the real hourly wage. The key question is, when the red line is falling from a peak, is the blue line falling too, or at least decelerating? And the answer, as above, is: Sometimes, but not usually. There is nothing dishonest in the claim that, in a recession, unemployment can be reduced without a decline in the real wage.